[originally an email to the morgueatlarge list, sent November 2003]
We’d almost missed a whole festival. The Edinburgh Film Fest is a short one, two weeks in length and packed to the brim with screenings. Almost every single screening is followed by a question and answer session with the director or star or both. It’s astonishing. And I managed to get to one film. Just barely.
Thursday 21 August we went, to Potestad, a film about Argentinian political disappearances in the 1970s, or more thematically, about the way making compromise in the face of corruption leads to loss and despair. It was a fascinating film. I think my favourite thing about it was the use of the main actor, Eduardo Pavlóvsky, throughout, despite the fact that much of the film takes place in flashback to when he was a young man. It works surprisingly well, much better than you’d expect if I just described scenes of an old man wearing a rugby jersey and running downfield with his young teammates. The film was based on a stage play, written and performed by Pavlóvsky, but you’d need to look harder than I did to see where that has limited things. Stunning. I wish we could have stayed for more of the director’s discussion afterwards, but no, we had to race across town for a very important show…
…the arrival of Lucy! Yes indeed, we were finally to enjoy guests taking advantage of the floorspace to see the festival. Lucy bounced off the train, tilting her head side to side as she does and grinning hugely as she also does, and proceeded to be a wonderful guest indeed.
The next day her other half John materialised, and that evening I joined the group to make a quartet ready to enjoy some great entertainment. By this stage of the fest word of mouth had been getting around, and tonight was a double-helping of good word. First up was ‘Ladies & Gents’, a grimy
Glasgow-set underworld thriller performed in a public toilet. They split the audience in half, and one half headed into the dimly lit Ladies, the other half was led into the Gents. Both groups, each about 20-strong, were carefully placed against the walls of the bathrooms and told not to move even a step… and then the music started playing, and the show was on. A nasty, bitter piece tasting of revenge and murder, you watched events unfold in your bathroom, occasionally hearing loud noises from the other one. And then, at the end of the scene, reeling from what you’ve just seen, you’re herded back outside again, past the other set, and into the other bathroom. Then you see the other side of the story, and only when you’ve seen both sides through does it all fall into place.
Beautiful. And it gains immense style points for being performed in a public loo.
Buzzing from that odd, but good, experience, we wandered the evening for a while and gravitated towards our other word-of-mouth special selection: Kiwi geniuses Jermaine and Brett, Flight of the Conchords. I’d relented my point of view that I could see them anytime in Wellington – they were setting the fest on fire and it seemed foolish to miss out on supporting my countrymen at the same time as having a sure ticket to the folked-up land of funny. As it happened, moments before Cal bought the ticket the Perrier nominations were announced, with Conchords included, and the price for tickets jumped by
half; but it made for a hell of a sold-out show.
And yes, they were good. They were as good as anything over here. They deserved that nomination, and the kudos it has brought them. (I didn’t see eventual winner Dmitri Martin, but if the reviews were accurate then that man deserved to win. His set sounded insanely good.) See these guys when
they come your way. To do so is wise.
Saturday 23 August – the final weekend of the fringe festival! Flyer hawkers were in a frenzy handing out paper to anyone in range, the bars were full of jaded semi-conscious comedians, the running jokes of the festival were well-established (Aaron Barschak). Lucy and John picked the show, and they picked a doozy. It was called The Return, by a small Australian company, and it was set on a late-night train ride from Perth to Fremantle. Basic plot: two yobs alone in a train car. Vulnerable young woman gets on and sits down. Go. Crikey, I don’t think I’ve been nearer the edge of my seat for years – the tension was incredible, and the humour when it came would have been funny even if it wasn’t a relief. Another victim of theatrical-plot syndrome, but as I’ve said before, it comes with the territory. Hell, it was brilliant. I think it ranks as the highlight of my entire festival. Outstanding.
Late night funny stuff to follow. We checked out Dwight Slade, an American comedian who was friends with Bill Hicks (if you know who he is, you’ll understand). Sadly, he never quite got the crowd working – his humour wasn’t the political viciousness that Hicks-hungry punters were hoping for, and while he certainly didn’t bomb, the show didn’t explode either. Not bad, not bad.
Criminy! Sunday 24 August! Only one show – the comedic stylings of John Oliver, getting talked up as the new Ben Elton. It was good stuff, with a very funny bit at the end about anti-war protests that recruited a bunch of other comedians playing the same venue as placard-carrying cameo artists, with a line or two each.
Unfortunately for Oliver, seeing as it was the last night of the show, the comedians decided to completely sabotage this sequence. They substituted all manner of nonsense for the scripted lines and the bit culminated in hugely popular comedian Daniel Kitson dancing around the stage grinning for a while in a spectacular coup-de-grace that Oliver handled with admirable aplomb.
Great fun, really, and a nice way to end the festival.
John and Lucy jetted away the next day (I shan’t clutter up the email telling you about them, but it’s worth pointing out they’re Very Nice People) and Cal and I hunkered back into normal life, after a fashion. The
International Festival was still going on and a few late Fringe events were still occurring, but most of the crowds were gone and the furious pace was letting up. I was looking forward to a final Fringe event: Spearhead were playing on Thursday August 28. Spearhead and frontman Michael Franti are a San Francisco socially conscious music outfit that just happens to make the best damn sounds I’ve ever heard. My favourite band, I’ve only seen them twice since they formed in 1994. I was really looking forward to time number 3. Their gig was the first thing I booked for the fest. I’d been ready for a month.
Naturally I got sick.
Brad and Willy went in mine and Cal’s stead, and I have heard from them and other acquaintances that it was a damn good show. I heard “best gig I have ever experienced” more than once. And I feel damn good that some good came from my tickets. Yeah.
Saturday night was the grand finale. August 30 and the fireworks display over the castle. It’s renowned by fireworks nuts throughout the world. It deserves its reputation. A little over a year ago I sent a morgue-at-large email that spoke excitedly of the fireworks at the Thames Festival in London. Here in Edinburgh I met their grander, snazzier, bigger older brother.
And I felt fine.
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Here endeth the account of Edinburgh Festival 2003.
Enjoy your early November!
~`morgue